


Over-easy

by CoinofStone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, As seen on Twitter, Based on an r/relationships Post, Drunk Dean Winchester, Enemies to Friends, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Smoking, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoinofStone/pseuds/CoinofStone
Summary: Based on an r/relationships post.Dean has a thing for breakfast food. None of that New American avocado toast nonsense - traditional greasy spoon diner fare only, please. Which is how Dean came to frequent a particular Waffle House location - even after the cook screwed up his eggs and decided to be a dick about it. Even though that same cookkeptscrewing up his eggs. Even after their confrontations escalated to fistfights, Dean keeps going back, keeps ordering his eggs over-easy, keeps fighting with the cook that won't make them that way. Even after his fiancé - who never ate the food there anyway - began refusing to accompany him to Waffle House, Dean keeps going back.Eventually, Lisa brings up her concern over this behavior, tells him she's worried it might be a red flag and that she wants it addressed properly, with a therapist, before their wedding (which is only a few months away). Dean doesn't handle the conversation well. He storms out, decides to go get smashed. The problem with this approach, however, is that drunk people generally want drunk people food - which is how Dean ends up at Waffle House; drunk, miserable, and hungry, sometime between very late and far too early.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Over-easy

**Author's Note:**

> The post was removed from reddit but please read the screenshots [here](https://twitter.com/JakeMHS/status/1260025788759326720) if you haven't seen the post floating around.  
> My story thread is [here](https://twitter.com/coinofstone/status/1260156551920340993)  
> It originally started out as me just writing up a prompt but people seemed to enjoy it so I'm posting a slightly cleaned up version here for posterity. If you wanna use it as a prompt hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/coinofstone) or [tumblr](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Punk!Cas is the cook.  
> TryingDesperatelyToBeNormal!Dean is the bf.  
> Lisa is the gf.

"A red flag." That's what Lisa had called it. After three years together, sharing a home and planning a goddamn wedding, THIS is what she decides is worth 'closer examination'. And so they fought, because Dean would rather not examine this too closely, this compulsion to repeat the same process expecting a certain result but never getting it, no matter how hard he tries to force it to happen. 

Dean goes out alone, gets hammered so he doesn't have to think. You'd think _that_ would've been red flag behavior, but apparently alcohol as a coping mechanism is a lot more acceptable than wanting the meal you've paid for to be cooked properly. Dean blames that line of thinking for him stumbling in to Waffle House some time after last call. No way that cook'll be there at 4 a.m. on a Thursday.

Except he is, and before anyone even comes by to take his order, the cook is standing over Dean's table and setting his order down in front of him, over-easy eggs cooked perfectly. Dean looks up at him through glassy drunken eyes, and the cook cocks an eyebrow at him, a challenge. Dean looks back down at the plate in front of him, and the cook walks away without a word, back towards the kitchen.

In a fit of rage, Dean launches himself out of the cracked vinyl booth and charges at the man, without understanding why he's doing it or why he even came here at all, tonight. But Dean's unsteady on his feet, and the cook is stronger than he looks under that apron. They tussle for a moment, but the tussle quickly becomes a hug, and before he realizes what's happening Dean's crying, boogers and all, into the cooks shoulder, as he runs a soothing hand down his back and shushes him gently, as one does a child. 

In the seconds between Dean's alcohol-fueled heaving sobs calming and mortification setting in, the cook has walked Dean back to his booth and sat him back down with a quiet, "Eat, your eggs are getting cold."

So he does, and he doesn't dare lift his head lest he catch the eye of the two or three other patrons sitting in a Waffle House in the middle of the night on a weekday. The cook returns to refill Dean's coffee, and take away his plate once he's finished eating. Shame, grease, and black coffee work together to clear the fog in Dean's head, sobering him up slightly, but not enough to question the absurdity of the cook coming back over after a while to grab him by the bicep and gently tug him out of the booth. 

"C'mon, smoke break."

"I don't smoke," Dean replies, voice hoarse.

"I do." the cook says with twinkling eyes as he tugs on Dean's arm again pulling him to his feet and steadying him with one hand on his shoulder, before leading him through the kitchen and out a back door.

He lights a cigarette and leans back where he's seated on an upended crate, eyeing Dean critically before he says, "So do you wanna talk about it?"

"Bout what?" Dean answers reaching back to scrub a hand over the back of his neck, a nervous habit.

"Whatever brought you stumbling in here at this hour, clearly drunk off your ass and more miserable than anyone that drunk has any right to be."

Dean doesn't know what to say, so he remains silent. 

"Maybe something to do with the girl who's too good to eat Waffle House food, the one you're forcing yourself to marry even though you obviously know you aren't right for each other?"

At that Dean looks up, his face struck with a questioning look while his heart pounds in his chest. How could this man have possibly assessed their relationship so succinctly from a handful of visits where their only interaction was a round of fisticuffs? Lisa hadn't even been in here with him since the second time they'd come to blows. 

Flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, the cook looks up at Dean and shrugs. "We've all been there." he says, looking away. "Mine was Daphne. I left before we legalized anything. Divorces are messier than break ups, especially with children in the picture. A broken heart is easier to heal without lawyers involved." The cook turns his head and laughs, and Dean is instantly mesmerized by the ink that trails down his neck from just under his ear and disappears down his collar. Dean briefly wonders what the rest of the tattoo looks like before he's startled by intense blue eyes catching him staring.

Standing up and brushing imaginary ash off his front, the cook looks at Dean again, a gentle challenge in his eyes. "You sober enough to drive yet?"

Dean's head snaps up at that, his hand reaching for the keys in his pocket as his eyes go comically wide in horrified concern. He took the Impala when he left the house, but he _never_ drinks and drives, especially not in his Baby. With the keys in his hand he realizes he has no memory whatsoever of how he got here. One minute he's being shoved out the front door of a seedy dive bar, the next thing he knows he's sitting in the booth at Waffle House, harsh fluorescent lighting burning his eyes when he looks up at the cook who'd just set down a plate for him. It's probably selfish, but in that instant Dean's overwhelmed by concern for the state of his car.

It must show on his face, because the cook smirks. "She looked alright when you peeled into the lot and parked sideways across four spots. Didn't see any damage, anyway. Don't avoid the question." 

Dean closes his eyes. Tilts his head back towards the moonlight peeking through the clouds. Inhales deeply, the scent of greasy diner kitchen and alley dumpster mingling with the scent of grass and the highway just beyond the parking lot. Finally, he swallows, hard. "I don't think so - I could probably make it home, but... No, not really." 

The cook starts to head back inside, stops with the door open just enough to walk through. "Go straighten her out at least. My shift's over, I'll be out in five. I'll give you a lift home." 

Dean flips the car keys in his hand, sober enough now to recognize the absurdity of the situation. "I didn't pay yet." 

The cook's laugh sounds like music. He throws his head back for just a moment, before he shakes it and hits the open door with one hand, body leaning into the side of the door, halfway inside, halfway out. "This one's on me. Don't worry about it." and he disappears back into the kitchen. 

Dean walks around the outside of the building to the lot at the front, and sees Baby haphazardly sprawled across several spots. Trying his best to see through the shadows cast by the streetlights, he gives her a once over, checking for any scratch or dent before sliding in and starting her up, listening to the engine critically for a moment, before maneuvering her into a single spot at the back. He's not thrilled about leaving her here, but he knows he's in no shape to drive. He made it here safe, and he's not interested in tempting fate again tonight. 

When he gets out, the cook is walking towards him with Dean's forgotten jacket in hand, his apron and white shirt gone to reveal an AC/DC shirt tight over a broad chest. For the first time, Dean notices the black jeans tight around well muscled thighs, and unconsciously licks his lips. Before he's looked his fill his jacket is unceremoniously tossed at his head, laughter in the cook's eyes as he cocks his head toward an old Continental parked nearby. 

"THIS is your car?" Dean exclaims incredulously before he can stop himself. He looks over to see that damn danger eyebrow raised in challenge for the second time that night, and makes a feeble attempt at a humorous recovery. "I just wasn't expecting the pimp-mobile" 

"You can walk home if you like." The response is delivered flat, neither threat nor joke, and Dean doesn't quite know how to respond. 

"I'm Dean, by the way." he offers over the roof of the car, because it feels like he should. 

The smile that answers him is mischievous in a way Dean's hazy mind can't process at the moment. "Cas." 

*** 

**Author's Note:**

> My vague recollection of Waffle-House-like-places during late overnight hours on weekdays includes the detail of there being no waitstaff, leaving those duties to the kitchen staff. This is why Cas is refilling Dean's coffee and clearing his plate. It's not mentioned because Dean's too drunk to realize there's anything odd about it.


End file.
